"The Old Man would put buckshot in everyone's arses and tell them to get off his town," Shawn replied dryly to the hunter, "but you're right. We need to band together... we'll talk later. Enjoy your drink, Stella."

The bartender ignored Stella's remark about the 'Special Broo' Angus concocted in one of the stills. It was a potent alcohol that could actually get a mutant drunk if they had enough of it, and not the sort of beverage Shawn was inclined to serve to his human customers. But he didn't refuse them; he figured they knew best what they wanted.

He side-stepped the short distance down the counter to stand before Liliana. Shawn had almost a decades worth of bartending experience, and he knew how to gauge his patrons. Some of them liked to converse, others needed someone to simply listen to their rants, but a great many of them simply wanted what a bar offered and not to be bothered.

Behind Shawn on the wall above the shelves holding clean cups, boxes of spare cutlery, and bottles of alcohol were two wooden signs painted a dark colour with lighter writing. What was customarily available for beverages was on one sign: various types of booze, Nuka-Cola, bottled water, and brahmin milk [usually served to kids]. The other sign listed off meals, which included omelettes, toast, pancakes, porridge, and Sugar Bombs cereal under Breakfast. The daily special was tacked up every day for variety, but since Angus had yet to decide, that wasn't out yet.

"What can I get you? There's coffee brewed, or Nuka-Cola if that's how you like your caffeine." It was easier to interact with Liliana. He didn't care if they made eye contact, didn't find himself flustered when he looked at her. She was just a regular customer, easy to predict, one he was happy to serve. Stella had become a friend and had figured out how to throw him off-balance.

The back door into the kitchen banged open and shut as Angus came and went, likely depositing fresh meat into the lone functioning fridge the Fission Hole had. The tiny town managed to maintain electricity via the power station, although it sometimes failed and needed repair.

Margret sighed, glaring into the mirror in Falls Creek Hotel's bathroom. It had been many years since she started turning into...that, and she never got used to it. She rubbed at a patch of skin under her right eye that was peeling away and grimaced.

She shook her head, pulling herself from the mirror. If she sat there nitpicking at her reflection, she'd be in the bathroom all day, and Missus Greene certainly wouldn't like that.

There was a vigorous knock at the door. "Speaking of the devil." Margret murmured, smirking as the old woman's gravelly voice(almost like her own) sounded on the other side of the door,"What are you doing in there, girl? Other people need this restroom too!" Margret opened the door quickly, smiling down at the old, wrinkly woman," Mornin', Missus Greene. Nice day, eh?" The woman glared up at her. The ghoul raised her hands with a sigh,"I'm goin', I'm goin'."

She left the building quickly, making her way to her usual spot. The bar. She enjoyed a stiff drink like most people. Well, maybe she enjoyed it a bit more then most. She pushed the door open, looking over the bar until she saw Shawn. She cast a glance in the direction of the black-haired woman. She'd seen her around town, but hadn't cared to speak to her or find out her name.

She sat down on one of the stools and leaned forward, rubbing her arm nervously.

It wasn't really hard to tell where Princess was. You had to be blind. And mostly deaf. One might mistake the sound of the huge mastiff romping through the town as a stampede of Brahmin. Well, maybe not a stampede. But, it would still be pretty damn hard to miss the bovine sized k-9 making it's way to the smell of what it considered breakfast.

Meanwhile, Silas pushed open the door to the bar and was already grumbling before he even got his first step inside. In fact, if one were listening, they might hear him cussing up a storm as he was coming closer to the establishment. He was a very colorful linguist at time. Especially when he was angry.

"What in the name of all that is unholy!" The door slammed behind him and he made his way to the edge of the bar. Lucky him, there were two pretty fine little girls, and a ghoul. However, he was angry. And he was about to let everyone know why. "Damn kids shoot'n up a storm in the wee hours of the morn'n." He slammed his hand on the bar top, which was nothing more than a simple dresser top, and mumbled, "Tequila."

As the first shot was poured, it had barely enough time to settle before it was slammed back and downed. The Old Man sat the glass back on the table and started with his rant. "These glorified, wannabe, pansy a**, no good bandit punks! Try'n to put this whole damn town under some sort o' eff'n siege. An' they ain't even do'n it right! An' because of them mongers, I gotta be woken up by some crazy a**, pink hair'd little brat shoot'n her tiny a** pop guns around town so early I ain't even got'n no sleep. An' that makes me cranky, I tell ya!" He pushed the shot glass foward and pointed to it so he could get another shot of tequila. "You don't wanna see me cranky! I may be liable to fill someone's a** full o' buckshot if they come 'round my house that early tomorrow ..."

His rant was over. For the time being. He finally took a moment to look over the girl to his left. She was new to town. Well, as relatively new as someone could be. Everyone had been stuck in this place for a while now due to the circumstances. Her eye patch was the most noticable feature she had to offer. But he wasn't much worried about that crap. However, he did see something and it made him put in his two cents. "Hey chikeeboo. If you plan on stick'n around the bar, check yer s**t in at the closet near the door."

He looked back to the the tender and downed his second shot. Then he nodded. "Where's my dog, Shawn? She left before I did ..." About that time Princess came in from the back. She had a bone the size of a large club in her massive jaws and she curled up near the fireplace. The sound of her crunching on the bone was pretty audible. Even with a room's distance separating them. "Ne'er mind. Found 'er."

Sitting on the stool, she thought of different ways to kill Stell and get away with it. Mostly so that she could sleep in. She didn't have anything wrong with the girl, but waking up to the sound of gunshots when it was still too early in the morning tends to make her cranky. She'd never act on it, unless she was paid to do so, but she liked to keep her options open. She didn't want to cause any unnecessary trouble. Shawn asked if she wanted anything to drink. Her time in the town hasn't gotten her much notoriety but at least the barkeep knows that she has a taste for Nuka-cola. Still facing forward, she replied to Stella but directed her order to Shawn, ''l'll take a cold Nuka. If you have it.'' She reached for her belt and pulled out a few caps. The metal clanged together as she counted out the amount it would cost for one. Setting them down on the counter top she waited for her drink. Before he walked away, she thought it would be wise to get something to eat. It was a little early in the morning for something heavy, but Noodles always seemed like a good idea. ''Oh, think you can get me a bowl of noodles?''

She'd like to take a shot of whatever Stella was talking about. Something strong that was potent enough to throw her on her back seemed delightful. But instead she already gave her order out. Dragging the smoke through the filter, she let it settle before pushing it out through her lips, patiently waiting for her soda. When Shawn returned with her she pushed over the caps to him. Using her lighter to take the top off the bottle, she put it in the pile of currency as a tip. The glass felt cold in her fingers even though she wore her gloves. The smell of syrupy sugar and the sound of the carbonation bubble popping was a welcomed combination. Taking the first sip, she felt her throat burn due to the carbonation. She placed the bottle in front of her and started to take another hit from her cigarette before ashing it again. Another person came into the bar, she didn't bother looking over in their direction.

The door to the bar was kicked open and it slammed. Heavy footsteps carried the patron to the bar and he sat to Liliana's left. He started to rant about the bandits that had the town quarantined, she partial to agree with him but his. She didn't know his name, the elderly nitwit, but she was already starting to dislike him. He was loud, obnoxious and wouldn't shut up. His voice was starting to give her a headache. Ashing her cigarette when he started to talk to her. The second word he said to her was what set her off. Chikeeboo. She didn't mind to have her weapon taken, it was understandable. Their bar their rules. She could abide by that. But some behemoth of a fool acting like some old fashion hick telling her to do so impolitely made her bite her tongue and try to drown out the thought of kicking his teeth in, grinning as he spit them out onto the bar floor.

Resting her cigarette on a groove in the ashtray, she got off her sit and walked towards the other side of the bar, opened the cabinet and put her sidearm into it. She hesitated at before closing the door, thinking of how quickly she could take out the other people in the bar and make it to the backdoor before someone ran in to see what the commotion was. Though somebody probably already made her walking in so any alibi she could muster up. She resealed the door and went back up to her seat. ''l'll actually take that shot.'' she said as she rested her forehead in her right hand, trying to massage the migraine she could feel coming. ''Make it whiskey. ''With her left hand she took her cigarette back and killed it off and lighting another, her pack running deadly low. If the buffoon continued to act like a jerk when she ran out of nicotine, she could only pray she could stop herself from acting up. Shawn poured the shot and placed the glass in front of her. With one fluid motion she drained the contents and put back down the glass. Her throat burned and she could feel saliva start to fill her mouth. Her abdomen started to heat up. Going back to her leaning over position, she kept massaging her head.

The sun was trickling in through the blinds and shots could be heard in the distance. Daniel rolled over in an attempt to go back to sleep. Unlike other people he wasn't burdened with regular responsibilities. He didn't have to get up at an ungodly hour and shoot geckos, and those who did didn't seem to take this into consideration. Daniel laid there for a few minutes more and decided that he should get out of bed. Even if he didn't have a genuine job he still had things to do. He liked to get to the bar nice and early so he could have he find a nice place to sit.

He sat up and picked up a pack of cigarettes from the side table, which was slightly burned and scratched, but that's the way most furniture looked in the wasteland. Daniel light up a cigarette while he mused to himself. He was trying to think of where he would go once it was possible to leave Falls Creek. He had been traveling North for a little bit and it wouldn't be so odd to continue that way. After he took a couple of drags off the cigarette he got out of bed.

Daniel's morning routine always took a little time. First he made his bed. This might seem like a pointless exersize to some in the Wasteland, but you never know when you are going to have company. Then he had to pick an outfit to wear. He didn't have that much clothes, although he probably had more than other citizens of Falls Creek. Daniel took pride in the way he looked. He felt as if this trait somehow separated him from most of the wasteland. In his mind it gave him some sort of old world charm, although he was a somewhat biased party. After he got dressed he combed and styled his hair. Midway through he had to get another cigarette.

After he was finally satisfied with his appearance he collected his things, his pistol, switchblade, cards and remaining cigarettes, and headed outside. It seemed a little dark for so early in the morning. Daniel didn't like days like this all that much. Well, honestly he didn't like a lot of days despite the weather. He walked over to the Fission Hole. It was a short walk so it wasn't bothersome, but everyday Daniel always wished that he lived in one of the spare rooms at the Fission Hole. However, Daniel did like his privacy and that's one thing his home had to offer.

When Daniel got to the door of the Fusion Hole he lit another cigarette before entering the bar. Once inside he was immediately disappointed. All the seats near the bar were taken. He cursed himself for not getting up sooner. He checked in his few weapons and walked over to the bar. "Good Morning everyone," he said with as much fake enthusiasm as he could muster. He knew most of the people there. There was Shawn, Stella, the Old Man and Margret. He didn't consider them his favorite people in the world, but hey, what can you do? There was also another woman who he had seen before but he didn't know her name. He thought that someone might have told him at some point in time but he had forgotten it. He didn't consider this a great loss since she looked quite sour.

He stood at the far edge of the bar. "Shawn, could you be a dear and get me some scotch?" Daniel asked as he reached into his pocket and pulled out several caps. He placed them gently on the table while he waited for his drink.

Eli found himself walking across Falls Creek, aiming to go get himself something to drink from the Fission Hole. He paid no attention to the stares and whispers coming from the townsfolk. At this point they were commonplace to him. He didn't mind them too much, they were minor annoyances, like running out of cigarettes. He reached into his pocket for one of the cancer sticks and lit it, taking a long drag. All in all it was a typical day in Eli's unlife.

Gunshots rang out through the air, a common occurrence recently. Those raiders outside the town were becoming a serious problem. Eli wanted nothing more than to walk outside the town and kill every last one of them. He only found one thing worse than the slavers he had dealt with in the past, and that was raiders. Thugs who killed just to kill, and then looted and desecrated their victims' bodies. They needed to be executed. Unfortunately he was only one person, and there were a lot of raiders.

Eli carried his assault rifle on his back, and his bladed gauntlets at his hips, their positon allowing him to get them on quickly. He didn't expect any trouble, but it never hurt to be cautious, especially with the bandits outside the town. He could see the bar in sight and walked up to it, finishing his smoke before he reached the door.

He calmly walked inside and looked around the bar. Eli lit up another cigarette, not caring who was around. Only person he immediately took notice of was Margret, the only other ghoul in town he knew of. He went over to the bar and sat down a couple seats away from her. He looked over to Shawn and called out to him. "Shawn, got any rum?" Eli called in his usual gravelly voice.

Shawn adeptly handled each order for shots and drinks as they came. The Old Man's rants were nothing new, and in all honesty the bartender didn't consider them to be very important unless he was waving that shotgun about. As was to be expected, Princess had gone to Angus before anyone else, as the chef always set aside a bone or two for her to devour.

He retreated briefly to the kitchen for Liliana's order, and when he got back he swept the caps away with a quiet "thank you." The payment went into a lockbox kept under the counter far back on the shelf, and he made a note of the amount on a notepad nearby. He fetched her a shot glass of whiskey and noticed how swiftly she was getting through her cigerettes. "Let me know if you run out. My pack is fresh," the bartender offered. Then he stepped away to serve the other customers in turn.

"Here, Ol' Man, take the tequila bottle. Count your shots. Morning, Margret. What can I get you?" When Margret had given him her order, Shawn was quick to bring it to her. He turned to face Daniel.

"Of course, Daniel. Anything else?" A healthy portion of Scotch went into another glass pulled off the shelf, and the clink of more caps went into the lockbox. Shawn glanced to Stella. "If you want a refill, you know where your favourites are. Here you go, Eli." He passed over the glass of rum to the ghoul, Eli. Briefly, Shawn wondered what he was going to do if the stocks ran low. It was unlikely any traders would make it in, and even unlikelier than he and Angus would be able to head out to go purchase what they needed from somewhere else.

I guess you'd all better get used to Moonshine if that happens, the bartender thought. Aloud, he said, "Eli, don't forget to check your piece in the closet, hey? And the table by the furnace is free if anyone wants the second best spot in the house. Looks like Princess got to the first." He leaned forward a little to peer around the corner, and spied the great hound masticating her treat before the low flames of the fireplace.

A very delectable smell began to waft from the open kitchen doors. Angus had the apple pie in the oven. Shawn continued to tend the bar and bring out orders of food as people requested them.

[ OOC ] All the bar seats are full: there's three--Stella, Liliana and Margret have 'em, everyone else is either standing or will need ta' take a table. Sorry. 8D Feel free to have Shawn come and go from your characters and bring them their orders if you don't wanna' wait on a response, too!

Valentine leaned against the rough surface of a small shack, and focused on getting control of her breathing and the pain that throbbed in her left shoulder and flank. With one hand, she peeled off the dust-coated gasmask that had protected her face, letting it drop to the ground, and with the other she accepted a tin cup of lukewarm water the watchman had dipped from a nearby barrel. She drank it eagerly, grateful that could stand and drink water, that she could even breathe. Others had not been so lucky. Even with blood running down her arm to drip off her gloved fingers, Valentine felt fortunate.

She eyed the watchman. He was middle-aged, a farmer by the looks of it, and he nervously and awkwardly clutched an old hunting rifle. He didn't seem well-equipped to even be a watchman, given that he was shaking all over and staring in wide-eyed fear at the half-dozen people who had just arrived at Falls Creek's West Blockade.

Valentine shifted her scrutiny from him to her companions--out of a caravan of eleven people, six yet lived. Of the four brahmin, two had made it, although one wasn't looking so well. Neither did one of the traders. Assisted by another of the caravan guards, Valentine had carried him most of the final two kilometers the group had dashed. Harried from behind as they were, their troubles had only intensified when the group had stumbled across a damned minefield.

What was a minefield doing outside of Falls Creek?! The watchman denied that the townsfolk had set it up, and she was inclined to believe him. That meant it was the hostiles she'd encountered on the way in, who were raiders by the look of them.

She finished her water and handed the cup over. "You got a radio?" she asked, as she leaned her assault carbine against the shack wall and eased off her pack. Her limited first aid wouldn't cut it. Her own wounds would need a proper doc--she knew there was shrapnel that had made it past her armour and into her skin, although not that far in. It would have to come out, however, or the invisible demons that cursed everything the enemy touched would poison her blood.

The farmer shook his head. Valentine pressed a palm against her shoulder, to staunch the bleeding. "Then you'd be get running, mister, and find your doctor, because my companions won't be able to walk to him. I'll watch your blockade, although I doubt they're going to attack. Hurry it up!" she snapped at him, and the watchman twisted about to run down the road into town. She stepped over to kneel beside one of the traders, the one with the head injury. He was awake, and he cried out occasionally with the agony of his injuries, the sound carrying in the relative quiet. They were all coated in mud and most of them were coughing loudly. Some of the mines had been smokers, and when they went off, they had created an obscuring and choking environment. In the chaos, that's how they'd lost two of the brahmin.

Valentine and the other guards had know the way to town, and they had reached the safety of Falls Creek. As she waited for the watchman to fetch the doctor, the mercenary paid close attention to the Wasteland beyond the blockade. She'd never actually seen the blockade set up, with old concrete dividers stacked atop one another to provide cover, and a watchtower assembled on the roof of the watchman's shack. Stella, where are you? she wondered. She didn't worry if her friend was okay or not. Valentine knew Stella Vasile would be perfectly fine; she was probably drinking at this very moment. Bombs and bullets, I need a drink. Something stronger than water.

Very little light could penetrate the walls of the old pre war garage. What few windows it had once possessed were all covered over with bits of salvaged materials, to keep out the elements and unwanted critters. Hence, it was also hard to detect the time of day when within those walls. Specks of light shone through a few holes, around the repaired windows, under the door, and few a few cracks, but it was hardly enough to distinguish morning from afternoon. So Dean Marston, the only one living in this converted garage, had to rely on his internal body clock. Usually he would rise around eight in the morning, and start by finishing up some service repairs, before leaving the shop to tend to his out of house duties. Like the power station, or the mine equipment. That being said, Dean had no official working hours. As long as the job got done, people more or less just expected him to show up when he was free. On that front, Dean was fairly reliable, so most could tolerate him being a few hours late if something else took priority. But, he personally tried to stick to a schedule, of his routine was being horrible disrupted recently. In wake of the mine accident, there seemed to be an endless supply of broken equipment. In fact the list of jobs got bigger every time Dean visited the foreman. It had turned into more work than a disabled mechanic could handle. Then to make matters worse, Raiders waltz into the area. Dean, being the man he is, quickly opened up a free weapon service. He'd become fond of the people in town, and he wanted them to have the best shot at survival. Getting everyone prepared was the least he could do. But now the poor mechanic was literally swamped in work, leaving very little time to take care of him. In fact, if not for Angus bringing him meals at least once a day, Dean would probably have starved by now. He was extremely thankful of Shawn's help. But no one could bring him a decent nights sleep. He always seemed to be up late, fixing something, barely get his head down for an hour or so before someone was banging on the door. Now the lack of sleep was taking it's toll.

Dean was off balance when he woke up. Something was not right, he was vertical, more or less. The darked haired man blinked, and then realised where he was. Not in his bed, but still at his workbench. Apparently he must have fallen asleep there sometime in the night. He groaned, but honestly would be happy to put his head back down, even on the hard surface. Instead he forced himself to his feet, and limped across the room, behind what used to be the garage counter, and into the back room where he normally slept. He felt better after a dose of Med X, but not normal. He needed to get back to work, but he was going to need caffeine first. But he was out of coffee, and the crate of Nuka Cola held only empties. Dean scratched his head, and decided he should pay the bar a visit. He needed to pay Shawn for the meals anyway.

When Dean entered the bar, he was carrying a small crate filled with dishes. He remembered to bring the Fission Hole's table wear back too. It seemed like a struggle to get in the door, but Dean was used to being handicapped. He was relieved to drop the box down on the counter, he then doubled back to drop off his pistol. "Morning Shawn, I'm here to repay for your kindness," Dean said, pushing the crate a little closer to the employee side of the bar, and then dropping a handful of caps on the counter. "Let me know if I owe you more." Since Shawn appeared busy, and the barstools were occupied, Dean wandered over to a free table. He didn't want to rush the bar owner. Dean spoke first, "I was hoping you might have some coffee, I'm out. Also, I don't suppose you have a few spare Nuka Cola I could buy off you?" Dean rubbed his eyes, and then reached into his pocket to grasp some more caps. "Seems like there's not enough time for sleep recently, I've never been so busy before."

“I know now that there is no one thing that is true - it is all true.”

Shovelful after shovelful of earth had eventually piled up before Byerley climbed out of the fairly deep hole. The soil had been mostly loose rocks and crumbling clay, which sped up or slowed down the act be a few minutes or so. The conditions were not optimal, but one had to make do with the cards they were dealt—irregardless of the circumstances. A slow, sweeping gaze informed him that no one would see him single-handedly push the corpse into its makeshift grave. It wasn’t terribly easy. The first push caused one foot to slip and he ended up on one knee; he simply blamed poor footing and judgment before he opted to take it slow and only try to move the animal bit by bit at a time until its horns were barely peeking over the edge of the hole. From there, covering it up and packing the soil down was a simple task, one that required far less effort than had been put into the hole itself, thankfully. The joint of his right elbow had a catch in it and the system warned that its ninety-two percent functionality could rapidly degrade if he continued to do any extraordinarily heavy lifting that human beings themselves wouldn’t consider for risk of injury.
He would be wise to do the same.

After several moments, it was as if the Brahmin never existed save for its congealed blood smeared across the recently-disturbed soil. Byerley would have considered it a job well done if it hadn't been such a macabre and upsetting task. Chances were the rest of the Brahmin in the town would meet the same fate if the raiders decided to make another run on the place.
Unfortunate, absolutely unfortunate, as the townspeople didn't look like they could form a proper militia—even with the number of outsiders trapped there. Very unfortunate, but it wasn’t all that uncommon for the intelligent variants of the degenerates to band up and lay down sieges on whichever settlements they saw fit; it never ceased to amaze him the level of cruelty that human beings could and would take.
“Finished,” he murmured to himself as he brushed the dirt from his hands and clothes. There was a smear of blood on the knee of his jumpsuit but the outfit had seen much worse in the previous days, only to be patched to the best of his ability. “Maybe there’s some word of an effort to fend off the raiders.”
Shielding his eyes from a dusty gust, he looked around again and squinted even though it didn’t particularly change his visual acuity one way or the other.
Things looked… dead. Still.
The town was definitely in hiding, its citizens indoors, apart from the few that had made their way to the Fusion Hole. Then again the corral and hotel were closer to the barricade than anything in the town, as if the people of Falls Creek intended to use livestock and visitors as shields.
Almost true to these suspicions someone ran past, clutching a gun and headed in the direction of the clinic.
Was there another attack? Byerely stuck the shovel into the ground and unshouldered his hunting rifle. It had only four shots at the moment, but he was fairly certain four shots would be all he needed to ‘get the guy’ as the old junk vendor had requested.

The past few weeks had been a strain on his nerves, and a kick in his heart, but the stress which was eating into his demeanor had not yet challenged the rigid schedule he'd become accustomed to. He rolled over onto his back and just lay there for a moment, trying to make sense of his dimly lit room. Soon he could make out the loose ceiling fan, which was idling in the gentle breeze which came in through the window. The curved blades lapped themselves slowly around the hub, and each time they passed 360°, a whining squeak warbled out and joined in with the crooning pouring from the phonograph. He closed his eyes and straightened his back, taking a deep breath as he tensed the muscles which seized his lower spine. After another good breath, he imprinted his back into the mattress . Clenching his core, he sat up and slipped his legs sideways off the bed, turning his head this way and that to get the kinks out of his neck. Another deep breath and he released his core, letting himself fall into his natural posture, which was almost as upright. He worked his jaw and ruffled his ******** hairdo, taking in more of where he was and trying to get grip on why he felt like he was waking from a tire-iron induced coma rather than an ordinary night of sleep. He reached out and tweaked the fidelity on the phonograph, which was propped on his steel bedside table, and turned it down until the cheerful tune was little more than a distant echo of music. Standing, he closed the window and turned, reaching up to snatch a blade of the fan with his fingertips and cut out that blasted squeaking. He meditated on his discomfort, the whys and whatfors. Nothing occurred to him immediately, so he just rubbed his eye and went on with his stretching routine.

A little under an hour later, he found himself standing just outside the door of the clinic and peering out across the broiling sky as the distant red line of dawn split the horizon eastward like an incision. He was washed, dressed, trimmed, and combed, his goggles hanging by the strap from his belt. He thought he felt ready for his day, but anyone else might say his eyes looked wet and splotchy. He listened in as the crack of dawn's a** invited the denizens of Falls Creek out to play. A door pitched open and closed with a slap and a snap. Almost immediately after, the loud racket of Stella's rifle split the cold air and rang in his ears. He shook his head and watched furtively as she made to go on her rounds, shrinking against the door in a slouch highly unlike himself. He was suddenly and disconcertingly aware that he didn't want to see her. He didn't want to see anyone just yet today, but Stella, much less. Her sudden foray into the quiet morning had finally reminded him what that feeling was that he'd woken up with. It was guilt. Hell knows just how much he'd been challenged by that the past few days. Weeks, actually. He strayed into the clinic and locked the door softly, flicking the switch of the incandescent light which flashed on with a faint buzz of electrical current. That sound kept on but slipped into the haze of noise that was rolling and tumbling in his head. Squinting his eyes for a moment as they adjusted to the bright light, he made for each of the windows in turn and checked to be sure they were all locked. They each had a steel lattice tacked to the outside, these windows were no form of ingress or egress other than for light and air. He wasn't shutting out dangerous critters, they didn't stray around the clinic, nothing there ordinarily smelled remotely like food. He was shutting out the noise as best he could, so that he could sit in until the day got on.

Stopping in the office, he sat behind his desk and surveyed the objects littering the polished driftwood surface. The Phonograph was there where he'd moved it after stretching. It was off, and thankfully so was the very talkative ROBco console jutting out of the side of it. That thing was named George, and Alcana had no idea how to make it stay off. He quit trying a little over a decade ago, and even sometimes felt inclined to enjoy George's spastic and highly inconsistent company. George had sophisticated enough sensory technology to detect whether or not its owner was awake. That wasn't the level of gadgetry the doctor had the knowhow to tinker with. Next to George, some records in their sheets and slips sat in a slightly disheveled pile. The slip on top was empty, the red-labelled record sat on the turntable under the wide brass horn. The title was scratched and faded, but the vinyl was sleek and shiny. Bessie Smith, St. Louis Blues.
An array of pens bridged the space in between those records and a stethoscope, which was twined against the doctor's worn nameplate. This was a thin steel sheet on a triangular support that read 'Dr. Alcana'. It had been his father's. Very Convenient. Another thing of his fathers sat before him on the desk, in the very center with a fair bit of space all around it. The Pip-boy. Still slightly warped. Still very broken. It sat there lifeless, bolts arrayed beside it and the faceplate open, disclosing three motherboards of varying length and a whole orgy of bulbs, springs, couplings, and wires. For some reason he couldn't bring himself to work on it this morning. The hours drew on, and he found himself sinking into his chair, just sort of listening and drifting off in distracted thought. Even with the windows closed, the distant noise of the town was rolling in on his perception. He drifted off in his chair. At some point the racket of Stella at work cut off. He fancied he could hear every time the door of the Fission Hole opened and closed. He definitely recognized the trampling of Princess thundering for the hole, and the inevitable stomping and cursing of old man Silas following after her. An ordinary morning. Having that thought put some calm in him. Shedding some of his apprehension, He hoped that today would be a good day. A day that would prove the hairs prickling on the back of his neck dead wrong.
There was a sudden hush, wherein the slow pounding of his heart rolled in his ears.
Lubdub... Lubdub... Lubdub... xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx... Queue: Gunshots.

Margret smirked as The Old Man came in, grumbling and ranting about the raiders. She didn't like the idea either, but she didn't want to waste her time complaining about it. Like anyone, she disliked being stuck in town for however long it would take for the raiders to either be killed or to leave them alone. But what she hated the most were the people she didn't know.

Sure, strangers came to town often, but they always left. These newcomers were stuck in town just like the rest of them. The townsfolk had gotten use to her rotting appearance, but the newcomers hadn't, and would get stares and glances from them that unnerved her.

Shawn's appearance pulled her from her thoughts, and she murmured a greeting to him as he placed her order in front of her. A glass of strong whiskey. She took a sip and sighed, looking over as Eli walked in and quickly ordered his own drink. As far as she knew, he was the only other Ghoul in town. She nodded to him in greeting and took another long sip from the glass. She paused at the sound of gunshots, muffled by the walls of the bar but still audible.

They had to do something about the raiders. They might try to take over with sheer force, and the only way they could possible the stopped was a form of militia. Get everyone that's able a gun, teach the ones that don't know how to shoot, and free the town. There's no one to help us 'cept ourselves. She thought, as she stared out at the clouds from one of the windows.

"There, just take small sips. Keep her head like that, don't let her slip. She could choke." Although blood continued to seep from her own injuries, Valentine couldn't stand the plea for water one of the traders was making. The woman had either a sprained or broken right arm, and she was using her left to support it so she couldn't hold a cup herself. The woman was furthermore exhausted, and had collapsed on the spot and couldn't rise, so one of other guards supported her while Valentine held the tin cup to her mouth. "There, better? I need to check again. Stay down." The mercenary stood up again and stepped over to peer around the barricades. There were no more gunshots to be heard, and the dust and smoke in the distance had diminished.

There was no sign of any raiders... or any other survivors. Valentine bit her lips lightly. Poor sods.

The watchman had run full-tilt down the dirt road to the Clinic. The man paused to lean his weapon up by the door, then tried to let himself it, but Benicio had locked it earlier. So he did the next best thing: he struck it with his fist and yelled, "Doctor Alcana! We have wounded by the Blockade! You need to come right now! Doctor Alcana!" The man struck the door a second and third time as he shouted, driven by a measure of panic and a need to see a familiar, trustworthy face.

At the Blockade, Valentine remained half-concealed by the barricades as she kept an eye on the road that led to and from Falls Creek. It remained devoid of life. It seemed that however bold the raiders were in the Wasteland, they lost their appetite if anyone reached the town. She reminded herself: the minefield. We need to go out there and disable it so no one else falls into that trap again. She must not forget. She had to tell somebody, probably Stella.

But more importantly, she needed some medical attention. She wasn't bleeding too much anymore, but the hurt was getting worse since her adrenaline was gone. Valentine gingerly touched her side, just below the scuffed black riot vest, where flak had driven in along her hip and outer-thigh. "Where's that damn doctor?" she asked aloud.

"Is that him?" One of the other guards asked. She turned. The man she spotted wasn't the Doctor Alcana as she remembered, but somebody else. He had a rifle... was he another watchman? Had someone finally come to check out the ruckus? While it was safer to stay inside, maybe, it was also a death sentence when raiders attacked. She'd seen the burned remains of homes, with twisted skeletons within. It was better to come out and die defending, or not die at all if you could help it.

She beckoned to him. "Heeey! Come to shoot some bandits? I've seen no signs, but maybe you've got better eyes than me. They stopped chasing us for the last hundred feet or so...doesn't mean they're gone. D'you know if the doctor is coming?"

The radios of Falls Creek, those set to the common frequency used for every day communication, screeched into sudden sound. The one clipped to Shawn's belt wasn't particularly loud, but the bartender quickly turned up the volume as a shriek sputtered from the device. A man's voice, distinctly older and recognizable to any long-term resident of the town, began to speak quickly, punctuated by gasps of exertion or pain. His name was Pascal.